Spring Returning
by bananababy72
Summary: When Melchior Gabor returns home in time for yet another spring to plague him with what-ifs and guilty thoughts, he gets more than he bargains for in a trip to the cemetary. Sorry I suck at summaries! Multiple chapters? :
1. Chapter 1

**This story was inspired by the ending of **_**Spring Awakening, **_**and also because I just wanted to see what had happened to everyone (in my opinion, of course). It's set around three years after the play ends. I was planning on writing more, but if it's just too awful, I'll spare everyone (: Thank you to anyone who bothers to read it! I know it's horrible, I'm sorry, I've never tried anything like this before! Reviews are helpful for constructive criticism (:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Spring Awakening,**_** but if anyone wants to grant me a couple of wishes...**

Is this what my life had come to, then? To escape, to ignore, to numb…only to be lulled back in, the pain searing once again? Was I never going to be allowed the chance to move on in my life? This only further deepened my disbelief in a god; why would it take everything from me and refuse to give anything back? Wasn't God supposed to be made of _love_? Didn't he grant all lives profound meanings-if so, what was the purpose of mine? To live in a shell, never forgetting the sins of my past? Was the only reason Wendla Bergmann given permission to live only to die, leaving behind waves of mourners?

Grief raced through my veins again, and not for the first time since arriving on this train, I had cursed myself and my decision to return home to care for my ailing mother. Munich-where I was living now-was a safe, sane town; no cemeteries brimming with people I…loved. Munich did not house ghosts creeping around every corner, and memories did not linger in the air, as tangible as any solid object. It had offered me the mindlessness of working, day in and day out; Munich was cold and gray and neutral, which was just what I needed-a break from the painful, reckless danger of my hometown.

I did _not_ need the spirit of Wendla trailing behind me, or the spirit of Moritz, for that matter. It was bad enough in Munich, with occasional and random uprisings of irrepressible images that scolded my mind like the touch of flesh against a hot stove. I had two settings, I supposed: numb and unfeeling, where I could ignore the blood on my hands; and pained and guilty, where it all seemed too much. I had yearned for the responsibilities of an adult, and I had gotten them-in the form of two deaths on my shoulders.

I chanced a glance out of the murky window of the slowly lurching train-it looked nothing like my hometown, not yet. I still had time to abandon this silly little adventure of mine, to ride instead to an unknown, less painful village. Something in me, however, stirred, when I thought of bowing out-it felt wrong, even worse than the thought of facing the object of my misery, my anger, my guiltiness for so many years. Didn't I owe it to my victims, Moritz and Wendla-oh, God, _Wendla_-to at least acknowledge what I had done?

I slipped into an uneasy sleep, tempted by the soft rhythm of the train, my dreams full of remembrances. Visions from my childhood, when my world had not been tinted black by atheistic thoughts; visions from my short time with Wendla, when I had not yet known the deep agonizing burn of loss; visions from my time now, when I had all but forgotten what it meant to be happy. All of them were unsurprisingly difficult to watch-they were the slow and steady downfall of the once-golden boy Melchior Gabor.

**How awful was it? I'm truly sorry for anyone who was kind enough to read it! Please, please review? (:**


	2. Chapter 2: Hell of a Heaven

**Thank you so, so much for the kind reviews and the favoriting! They really made my day (: I tried to make this chapter longer, though it isn't **_**much**_** longer. Sorry it took so long to update, I've been unexpectedly busy these past few days! I already have the next chapter all typed up though, so I should be able to post it tomorrow. (Yes, that one actually **_**is**_** longer. :])**

**Oh, and once again, I don't own **_**Spring Awakening,**_** as much as I'd like to…**

I watched him from above, as I always did. I had seen everything—his move, the cold monotony of his factory job, his halfhearted attempts at romance again—from my invisible perch somewhere in the skies. I felt like I was…intruding somehow, peeping on him when he didn't realize I was there, but even here, dancing amongst angels and twirling on clouds, he still was the only one who could truly make me _feel _something. As I settled down, looking over his journey to the only place we could ever have been together, I could sense the now-familiar butterflies crowding in my stomach. I smiled, savoring the feeling.

A hand appeared on my shoulder, and I somewhat reluctantly looked away from Melchie to see the body attached to it. Moritz, characteristically looking slightly nervous, stood over me. I gestured for him to sit next to me, and he complied silently. I thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that Moritz was still…Moritz. He was exactly the same in death as he had been in life; nothing about him had changed. I supposed I was the same, though how could I know for certain?

He followed my gaze down to Melchior and a knowing expression flashed across his face. "He looks upset," he commented vaguely, nodding towards his expression. "Poor Melchie."

I nodded, agreeing, but inwardly hiding a smile. Moritz was so kind, so compassionate, and yet he could never see that easily lovable side of himself. He only saw a side that didn't that didn't truly exist: the part of him that failed at everything, that could do absolutely nothing right. I picked up his hand, trying to comfort him, for I knew Moritz blamed himself for Melchior's current state of guilt, as absurd as that was. "How's Ilse?" I asked to distract him, though I watched over my old friends as often as I did Melchie, and he knew it.

He didn't answer, but instead looked at me intently, something bordering worry brimming in his eyes. "Wendla?" he asked me softly, quickly averting his eyes from mine and dropping my hand. "Don't you think you-you have to let him go?"

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. Melchie was the one person I needed to hang _on_ to. Every second of time I had spent with him was imprinted onto my mind, hopefully to stay there forever. I wasn't in heaven, not precisely; it was some kind of purgatory, for the angels had told Moritz and I there was still good we needed to spread, still some deed we had left undone, and until we had accomplished whatever that might be, we were stuck here. All of the waiting had granted me the free time I was forever missing when I was alive, and I secretly used it to fantasize about how our lives would have gone together. What would have happened if he hadn't been sent away, if I hadn't died? It made me deliriously happy to explore all of the different paths we could have set out upon, together. Together, with our little baby. A family. I normally felt a warm pleasure when I thought of all that could have been.

But now, a part of me felt impossibly sad at his words, and for reasons I couldn't possibly understand, let alone put in words, I began crying softly. He pulled me into an awkward hug, gently brushing away wisps of hair that fell into my damp eyes. Some section of my brain registered what I was doing: I was crying, while I was up in the sky, laughing with the angels. A sin, I thought absent-mindedly, picturing my mother's scandalized face and feeling slightly ashamed.

"Wendla," he said quietly, "you won't be happy until you do." At first I vehemently denied his words, shaking my head angrily, but the truth began to dawn on me. My body was sitting beneath the ground, decaying and rotting slowly, while my spirit was up in the heavens. Melchior, on the other hand, still had the prospect of a happy, fulfilling life ahead of him. He wasn't dead; he wasn't sitting in a hell of a purgatory. He might feel guilty and anguished right now, but time healed all wounds, did it not? Who was to say he wouldn't move on, find love, and forget about me and the child we would have had? I couldn't sit around forever, I knew, waiting anxiously for him to finally join me. In other, harsher words, for him to die.

I whimpered but said in so soft a whisper I could barely hear it myself, "Yes." In a sound that was much, much louder, my heart pulled apart, breaking into two.

**So, how was my marginally longer chapter? This chapter was actually surprisingly hard to write—I'm still not completely happy with it, but tell me what you think! If you liked it or didn't like it, there's only one way for me to know: review! (: Also, I hope you don't think I made my Wendla too upset and weepy, but she's not truly in heaven, so I don't think that she would be completely happy all of the time, and I personally don't think she would have gotten over Melchior so quickly. Once she's actually in heaven, that's when I think she would have a peace and happiness about everything. But if you disagree, tell me! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you again to anyone reading this! I really, really do appreciate it! Here's the longer chapter I promised. 1,248 words. I know, I'm surprised too. (: Oh, and I wanted to explain this chapter, because it's a bit different than the rest of them. Because I love **_**Spring Awakening**_** so darn much, I just had to see what had happened to the rest of the supporting characters. So I kind of wrote them into this story, but I'm not sure yet if I'll tie up their stories to Wendla and Melchior's "main" story . I think I might just leave these stories as kind of one-shots. **

I grabbed my carefully pleated and ironed trench coat before turning the handle of the door and stepping outside into the vaguely cold air. It was nearly spring, but the atmosphere still had a bite to it, and I for one wasn't going to let myself succumb. I tightly gripped the flower bouquet in my hands before beginning my usual journey to the cemetery. The wind, damn it, was unusually strong today, and it immediately mussed up my normally gleaming blond tresses. My hand automatically jumped to my head as I anxiously raked my fingers through my hair, trying to fix the slighted strands, but a memory flew into my head and I slowly lowered my hand.

A memory of a promise-one I had made for _him._ While he was sitting, weak and dejected, on his death bed, it was laughably easy to promise away my sensitivity and narcissism. "You're a good person," he had rasped as I had clung to his hand desperately, thinking that maybe if I held it tightly enough, he would stay here with me, alive, forever. "You need to let everyone else see the real you." My eyes stinging with tears, I had promised him, again and again, I would do anything for him.

But now, after the funeral was said and done and I was left dropping off flowers at the grave of the boy I had loved so dearly, only now had I realized how hard it truly was to rid myself of the traits Ernst had found less endearing. He loved me, I knew he did, but he wanted everyone else to love me as well. Not many people found an obsession with appearances a lovable thing. I had tried to become less uptight about my appearance, tried to soften my slightly tough demeanor, tried to humble myself. It was definitely difficult, mostly because I didn't know when I was being sensitive and unreasonable and when I was being narcissistic. Could I really do it, even for Ernst?

His death, however, had left me with a fierce determination and a burning agony, and of course a now somewhat-unrequited love. I could do this much to honor the memory of that dear, dear boy, of course I could. Of course I _would. _I was confident and sure as hell, and that was all it took, right?

I was coming close to the cemetery now; I had just passed the woods and accompanying meadows that bordered the little sanctuary of broken dreams. My throat tightened as I remembered all of the times we had crept down to those same meadows, drinking in the forbidden thrill of each other's presence. When we were in the meadows, there was no possibility of curious, nosy expressions, disapproving glares, and angry declarations of hate. Nothing mattered but us, the only two people in the world.

As I walked the familiar path of grief to his grave, an uninvited vision crept into my mind of the first time we had snuck away to the meadows. My eyes were suddenly threatening to spill over tears as the memory took over my mind.

_Ernst looked over at me, nervous and wringing his hands slightly. He thought what we were doing was _wrong._ Not for the reason I thought he would, but because he said he hated crawling behind his father's back. I was sure this was the very first time he had done anything of the sort, but I kept that to myself. He opened his mouth to say something but I beat him there, bringing my lips to his. At first, he just sat there, shocked, probably by the unexpected nature of my attack, but he soon gave in to my mouth, kissing me back nervously. We were both inexperienced, but I had much more confidence than he did, although I'd had my first kiss at the same time he had: a few days before._

_He pulled away all too quickly, however, and wrapped his arms around his knees. "It's cold out," he commented in a distant way. Not unfeeling, just not all there. I nodded slightly, bringing my head back to his, but he stopped me gently. "Can we just…talk?" he asked nervously, and I agreed, somewhat disappointed but not willing to show it. He let out a little sigh of relief at my reaction._

_I refused to break _all_ contact between him so I gripped onto his hand, rubbing small circles into his palm. He groaned a little at that, and I smiled. He was so innocent, so naïve, and I simply loved him for it. "What do you want to talk about?" I questioned slowly, knowing he must have a topic he desperately wanted to bring up._

"_Spring." He looked into my eyes for the first time that night and I had to fight against the burning urge to kiss him again. I would have reached out and done it without hesitation, except there was such sadness in his eyes that it shocked me into forgetting my intentions._

"_What about it?" I asked again, feeling slightly unnerved by his obvious anguish. I was never much good around crying, upset people, and I felt nervousness creep into my stomach._

"_It…it kills everything good, doesn't it?" he said, looking at me again with the soft ache in his beautiful, beautiful eyes. "My mother. Wendla. Moritz."_

_I was a bit surprised when he mentioned his mother, as Ernst tried to avoid mentioning her death as much as possible. I pulled him into a hug then, not able to help myself, and whispered softly against his neck, "But it brought us together."_

_He turned back to face me head-on but kept his eyes slightly away from mine. "I'm afraid of spring, Hanschen. I'm afraid of a _season_."_

_I smiled, though not at his pain. I wasn't that much of a self-centered jerk. He was just so sweetly vulnerable, almost childlike in his perception of the world. I didn't answer him, only finally pressed my lips against his, hard. He responded in a way that I hadn't expected, full of passion and excitement, but I could almost taste a little sadness._

"_At least I have you," he whispered so quietly I couldn't be sure he really said it during one of the few moments our lips were free._

"_I…I love you," I said in reply, marveling at how the simple phrase made the boy's eyes light up with such love and happiness._

I was sitting in front of his grave now, the marker's words making it formal and official. This sweet, joyful man was gone from the world, leaving behind only a corpse and a hole inside of me. I gently laid the flowers on top of the plot, whispering, "Goodbye, Ernst." It was the first time I had ever said it, and I had expected some relief, some unknown baggage to float off of me, but it didn't. I felt the same as I had before I said it: alone and hopelessly sad. I felt the tears spilling over and I tried, in some desperate way, to salvage my pride and stop them, but the feat was impossible.

As I sobbed, looking down on all that reminded the world he had even existed, I realized Ernst had a right to be terrified of spring. He had died during the season, after all, taking with him everything that was pure and innocent and lovely and _good_, and leaving behind only a broken, broken man.

**Reviews? (: Pretty, pretty please?**


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